


The One with the Cake

by uniformly (scramjets)



Series: The One with the .... [2]
Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 23:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4724234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scramjets/pseuds/uniformly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Because all you gotta do is dump shit in a bowl, mix it up and stick it in the oven. That’s it. That’s how you make a cake.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One with the Cake

**Author's Note:**

> Technically part of 'The More you Love' 'verse back on LJ, but doesn't need to be read for this to make sense. Just a ficlet that got outta hand.

What Runner felt for Chuckler had cooled in their second year of college. He could still remember it though, five years later: the low, dull ache of want, heavy and quiet in the dead of night, pressed hard against his sternum; that first real experience of being in love. The weight of it. The breadth of it. The sheer size and complexity of it shaped by each interaction he had with Chuckler. How Runner eventually noticed the broad span of Chuckler’s hands, or the long line of his throat, head tilted back on a library couch. How Chuckler was still growing into himself, shoulders, limbs, his own identity. 

Nights of Runner nudging the pieces of his feelings together and realising what the final picture was and then knowing it wasn’t returned. Watching Chuckler go on dates. Knowing he came back in the morning.

He had learned to live with it then, learned not to be surprised by the flare of heat through his bones when Chuckler touched him, or the guilty press of his hips against the mattress of his bed at night. Squared it away best he could and left it there, didn’t touch it. 

It was never reciprocated, that knot of feelings, and Runner had wallowed and moved on.

So. It was Leckie’s nephew’s birthday and Leckie had asked Runner to make the cake. Reason being that he was the only one who knew how, which was barely an excuse, okay—

“Because all you gotta do is dump shit in a bowl, mix it up and stick it in the oven. That’s it. That’s how you make a cake.”

Only Leckie had given him sad eyes and done that thing where he made himself out to be more useless than he was and Runner had eventually agreed because, Jesus, Leckie. King of self-pity and shameless about it.

Chuckler liked to help out when there was cake involved, and by that it meant that he tested the batter. He also suggested the type of icing and then tested that, too, and then he helped with the overall theme of the cake. By watching. Actually, now that Runner thought about it, Chuckler wasn’t so much help to the cake and more a witness to its development. 

“All of you are useless,” Runner said and Chuckler laughed, shrugged his shoulders and pretended he had no idea what he was on about as Runner dumped the batter into a cake tin and then shoved it into the oven.

“See. Look,” Runner gestured to the silhouette through the oven glass. He pointed again. Pointed with both hands. “It’s that easy. I don’t know what he’s on about.”

“Aw, you know what he’s like,” Chuckler said. He leaned on the counter top, weight rested on his forearms and bent slightly at the waist as he lounged. “He wants the sincerity and soul of something homemade, but doesn’t want to be the one doing it.”

And then Chuckler stretched his arms out, made grabby hands for the bowl like he was five and said, “Gimme.”

Runner rolled his eyes, but gave it to him anyway. Chuckler made a pleased noise and curled his arms around the mixing bowl, cooing down at it as if it were his firstborn and not potential food poisoning. Runner knew better than to comment, because Chuckler was also the guy who chucked raw eggs into a protein shake every morning during college and drank it just like that. Gross.

“Wash it when you’re done,” Runner said, “I have to make the icing.”

“Buttercream?” Chuckler suggested to the insides of the mixing bowl.

“My face is up here.”

Chuckler peeked up, grinning hugely and Runner pivoted, grabbed whatever was out and tossed them noisily into the sink. He busied himself long enough for Chuckler to have enough of the batter and feel sick before he turned back, already starting to talk, only to have his breath stutter in his throat because. 

Because Chuckler was still enjoying the batter, index finger deep in his mouth and cheeks hollowed for it. And then he dragged his finger out, slow and wet, and it lit Runner up, inside and out, attention flicking from Chuckler’s mouth to his eyes, which were now fixed on him, bright blue.

Runner startled himself by laughing and he clamped it down, bit on his lip, tilted his chin and grinned up at Chuckler who pulled the tip of his finger out with a pop and a satisfied look. But fuck, Runner’s face was still burning.

Baking had a special place in Runner’s childhood – the smell, the taste, the anticipation of something sweet. His mum had been good at it, but his dad made the best brownies; all gooey rich chocolate and fudgy texture. Runner could only ever eat one square at a time, even with his sweet tooth. His dad said he winged it—

“You hitting on me?” Runner said. 

—but his mum said it was easy to wing if he’d done it a million times. That the only way to get something different was to alter something in the recipe.

And Chuckler smiled and said, “Yeah, Will. I’m hitting on you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Tumblr](http://scramjets.tumblr.com), and always 100% up for Team Leckie shenanigans.


End file.
